Big Red Plus from LaLa Land
by wave obscura
Summary: Written for Chiiyo86's prompt: One boy is hurt, the other is sick. The sick one finds himself in the position of having to take care of the hurt one. Delirious!Dean. Like, really delirious. One Shot.


**Disclaimer: For the sick pleasure of myself and others. No copyright infringement intended.**

**Warning: **This story is written from Dean's point of view and he's very, very delirious, so warning for weirdness. But there's a method to his delirium, I promise :)

Big Red Plus from LaLa Land  
By wave obscura

From somewhere that his body isn't Dean can still hear Sam clucking but the words are slurped down the vortex with snippets of Daddy, of Bobby, of that stupid bitch with the lateral lisp from… where was it? Seattle.

Dean's head is waves of acid. Both drugs and burning both. And somewhere Sam is still talking.

"…not feeling good… real quick, Dean… salt and burn… then to bed… promise…"

He doesn't know the promise but knows Sammy wouldn't ever promise something bad, would he? Because Sammy… Sammy what?

Something presses against what must be his shoulder, his cheek against flat cold clear watery--- window. Car. Sam. Driving. And shit.

"…real quick… Dean… back…"

Air rushes in from his left side. Smells like graveyard. The trunk slams and the world rumbles and goddamn it's so fucking _hot_.

There was this beautiful chick from Seattle— god, he hates the sound of his Impala-the-beautiful trying to rumble up all them goddamn hills— who was sooo good at polling the electorate but shit, the fucking way she talked like she was choking on her own tongue—and Daddy said beef tongue is what you're eating tonight, goddamn it it's fulla protein, and you're too old to be calling me Daddy so grab your fork— her talk wasn't as hot as her mouth even though no woman is ever too old to call _Dean_ Daddy— it's fucking hot now, though, cause Sammy needs to turn the heat motherfucking _off_ cause the seats are melting into the… into the…

Sammy's talking again. It's too bad he can't hear the real world anymore—and what's real anyway, cause fuck, man, if it's not salty and burny what good is it?

"…bad…mother…fucker… Dean…"

Sometimes Sammy gets this _eek_ in his voice and the _eek_ always makes him think of her. She was shaped like the '70s. His only friend besides Sammy—his name was Jimmy or Joe or Tommy or something– told him it was the '70s bra that made the cone shape and—

"…Dean… please…"

The car tips and spins and it's hot and if that happens one more time stomach's gonna be like "everybody out!" and shit so Sammy—

"Dean… _help_."

He could go forever without hearing that word ever again, cause it's like pressure, every time someone looks at you with big shiny eyes and says _help_ it makes your muscles feel two sizes too big but also fail fail fail fail fail—

Wait. Help?

Dean's body twitches until he locates his eyes held together by goo. Then he find his arms and then his hands and then his fingers and he wipes at the goo and looks to his left and there's Sammy and he's bleeding and looking at Dean like _can you please cut my beef tongue into little pieces_ and _oh fuck my girlfriend's dead please don't let this destroy me, Dean, please._

"Sammy?" He says tentatively. He sees his brother like underwater but the blood is flowing up and over his eyeballs red like at the crossroads.

"TRIED. TO. SCALP. ME. DEAN. GHOST."

Sammy knows when he needs to speak up nice and slow cause Sammy's an awfully good boy, not like Jimmy Joe Tommy who said beer bongs were—

Why the fuck…?

Dean searches his body again for his brain. Head. Face.

Fever.

Shit.

"The hunt without!" He blurts, and his arms reach out to his brother. "Me. Wait for ME. C'mere."

Forests of hair, forests of hair and god his eyes want to shut up but he's gotta look for the wound and there! There it is.

"Nah. So bad." His mouth says, fingering forehead-gash Sammy.

"I. CAN'T. SEE. DEAN. FUCK. SORRY."

"Nhmmgmgg," Dean's mouth replies. He's just gonna lay Sammy back against the Impala like _that_—rest yer head right there, Impala take care you, and there's stuff. Somewhere. He needs—

Trunk.

It'd be easier to find the door handle if he could see out his eyes but he can't so he gropes till he feels something metal and the air rushes and he's out! In the free world. Keep on rockin'. Damn, you know what makes that song so freakin' awesome—?

Oh, trunk.

The Impala will lead the way, he knows every inch, door number one door number two, and there it is. Something twitches and the trunk pops open like chest treasure.

Now. Eye. Wash. Blood bandage. Big red plus sign always does the trick.

It's all black for a minute while he tells Dad all the stuff he never got to say but brother's fingers are groping his fingers and Dean goes back to the gash in the forest and stops the flow with white.

"Face. Head. Back. Sam."

But Sam's head is already tipped back over the Impala's love arm cause his car is sooo good to them cause trust is key. His hand does all the work, squeezes clear liquid out the bottle and into Sammy's eyeballs not red cause clear is the way to go and how it's supposed to be.

Hot replaces cold so Sam against him is warm just right.

"See again. Sammy," his good ole mouth says, surely he's said something important and if not at least the Bleeding Sammy is gone now.

"…thanks… drive home… let go… good now, Dean… good."

Dean used to think Sammy was like Dad and the swollen tongue girl, like there-one-minute-gone-the-next, you know? But that's not how goes it cause Sammy's more like the Impala and Dean understands that now.

But jesus christ it's still so fucking hot and there's something unpleasant somewhere muscle twitching ache—

Sick.

Dean opens his eyes again. He's hot and shivering and sitting in a nest of headstones in the Impala and he's _holding_ his brother—

"What the fuck?"

Sam looks up, a bandage pressed to his forehead. "Dean? You back with me?"

Dean holds his brother at arm's length. "I repeat. What the fuck?"

"Fever, man. You're pretty sick. You been in and out all day."

Dean looks around. Tests his nostrils, which are concurrently clogged and dripping. Notes the difficulty with which he can barely breathe.

The handle of a shovel is poking out over the back seat. Sam is covered in mud and blood.

"You hunting without me?"

From under the bandage, Sam looks guilty. "People are dying, man. I couldn't wait for you to come back from Lala Land."

"The fuck you couldn't Sam, because—"

He's about to launch into the most epic you-could-have-gotten-yourself-killed speech the world has ever known. But something dips and spins and the acid is burning and Dad comes over for a visit and says _he can look out for you, too _only he uses the first person which doesn't quite make sense but Dean doesn't give a shit now because suddenly he's horizontal in the softest of beds.

::::

The End.


End file.
